


The Final Ballad of Oxenfurt

by ThebanSacredBand



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bittersweet Ending, Gen, Jaskier ages normally, M/M, Sadness, Set 40ish years after season 1, does that count as au?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 12:14:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22849978
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThebanSacredBand/pseuds/ThebanSacredBand
Summary: In all the years he has been alive, Geralt of Rivia has been to almost everywhere on the Continent. He has climbed mountains and dived to the bottom of lakes. He has seen cities and kingdoms rise and fall.But, for all the places he has been, there is one he most assuredly has not. He has never once set foot in Oxenfurt.Set 40-50 years after the end of season 1
Relationships: (past/one sided), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 67
Kudos: 246





	1. Geralt

In all the years he has been alive, Geralt of Rivia has been to almost everywhere on the Continent. He has climbed mountains and dived to the bottom of lakes. He has seen cities and kingdoms rise and fall.

But, for all the places he has been, there is one he most assuredly has not. He has never once set foot in Oxenfurt.

There are all sorts of reasons. It is never was the direction of anywhere he intended to go to. He knew that other Witchers were in the area. Monsters are less likely to be found in bustling cities than in the outskirts of small hamlets.

More recently there had been a decidedly more personal reason. One that he would never admit that to anyone.

Not that anyone would ask. There are probably only two people on the whole Continent who would dare ask him such a thing: Yennefer and Ciri. Yennefer speaks to him on occasion, now, but she would have no idea where he went and where he studiously avoided. And there are plenty of places he and Ciri have yet to venture to. If she ever does notice a distinct avoidance of a certain university town, well, it will be long after his reason not to go there was still…

Fuck.

Geralt tries not to think about Oxenfurt.

It is hard not to think about Oxenfurt when he and Ciri are hired to escort a very wealthy older lady from her home to the city. He considers turning it down, but then Ciri raises a single eyebrow at him, and _why_ had he taught her how to do that? But she is right. This road is dangerous, and they have heard stories of monsters lurking in the forest, and this lady is offering to pay them an almost ridiculous amount, which will easily pay for more potions and fewer nights camped under the stars.

There is no reasonable explanation for why he will not take the job.

They take the job.

It is mostly easy going. There are a couple of things to fight, but there are no significant injuries or anything of the sort. It is just the three of them, making good time along the winding roads.

The lady seems to have no qualms with making conversation with him and Ciri, which would have been odd, how long ago? Half a century? Longer? Geralt has never been one to keep track of time. He doesn’t age, Ciri doesn’t age, Yennefer doesn’t age. What reason does he have to pay attention to the passage of the lives of mortal men?

But, in any case, people have tended to be friendlier and more welcoming to Witchers, and especially Geralt, ever since…

Nevermind.

“We never asked, my Lady, but what is it you’ve come to do in Oxenfurt?” Asks Ciri, the night before they are due to arrive at the university town. However long she has spent on the road with Geralt has somehow still not managed to ruin her previous politeness, which is definitely a boon for when they are dealing with wealthier clients.

Now, though, Geralt wishes that she had not asked, politely or not. He doesn’t know why, but the moment that the lady opens her mouth to respond, he knows that he is not going to like her answer.

“Oh, my old music teacher is doing a concert. I wouldn’t have made such an effort, but he’s getting rather old now, and I’ve heard rumours that it will be his last performance. Professor Pankratz, his name is. Have you heard of him?”

She is facing Ciri, she is answering Ciri, but her eyes keep darting towards Geralt.

He doesn’t know why. He has never heard the name Pankratz.

Except he has, somewhere.

Ciri and the lady are still talking, but Geralt’s mind is elsewhere, partway up a mountain with Yennefer, an old man, his two bodyguards, and “I’m Julian Alfred Pankratz.”

“Fuck.”

Geralt stands up, abruptly, leaving the warmth of the campfire to stand in the shadows where the lady won’t be able to see whatever emotions are passing over his face without his consent.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t, he can’t. Jaskier.

“I’m so sorry, my Lady,” Ciri is saying, quiet enough that Geralt should not have been able to hear her, though of course he can, and she knows that. “I don’t know what’s come over him.”

“Don’t worry my dear. _I_ do.” There is sadness and a twinge of resentment in her voice, one that sounds years in the making but has been well-hidden up until now. She stands up, facing in the direction Geralt went, projecting her voice even though he doesn’t need her to do so.

“Did you know, Witcher –” she spits the word where she had always kindly called him Geralt before “– that he appeared in Oxenfurt a year after the war ended, with his lute in his hand and no memory of the past several years. I had just started my studies then, and we were all _so_ excited to have the famous bard come teach us. But the man who arrived in front of us was not the one we expected. He was a good teacher, an amazing one, to be sure. But he was so _broken_.

“We liked to think we could fix him, being young and foolish as we were. We couldn’t, not one of us could. Did you know, Witcher, that he brought a song out of the wilderness with him, and he never composed again.”

Geralt swallows, because he cannot bring himself to speak, or even to hum. He never knew. He never knew.

He is the one to blame for this happening, and he is the one to blame for him not knowing that it had happened.

“I’ve got you both tickets. You’ll be coming with me.”

Geralt is moving towards her before he knows what he is doing.

“No.”

She fixes him with an icy stare.

“He’s almost ninety years old, Geralt of Rivia. He doesn’t have long left. Let him see you at least once more before he dies. You owe him that much.”

Geralt feels stricken. He does not say no again.

Had it really been so long?


	2. Ciri

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The room is already busy when they enter, and Ciri still isn’t quite sure what’s going on. Back in Cintra she had been educated by musicians and poets that anyone could find, and none of them, as far as she could remember, had ever mentioned a Pankratz. But here they are, in a chamber filled almost to the brim with more wealthy people than she has seen together in a while, and Geralt is on edge.

The room is already busy when they enter, and Ciri still isn’t quite sure what’s going on. Back in Cintra she had been educated by musicians and poets that anyone could find, and none of them, as far as she could remember, had ever mentioned a Pankratz. But here they are, in a chamber filled almost to the brim with more wealthy people than she has seen together in a while, and Geralt is on edge.

It takes a trained eye to notice these things, but Ciri has had over forty years of experience in dealing with Geralt, and there is probably no-one who knows him as well as she does.

His hood is up, his chin is down, but she can see enough in the set of his shoulders to know that all is not well. That, combined with his bizarre reaction to hearing the name Pankratz… well. Ciri would very much like an explanation as to what is actually going on.

A cheer starts, small at first but quickly swelling like a wave, and Ciri looks to see an old man being helped to a cushioned chair sitting front and centre. This must be him, the famous bard they have all come to see.

She’s not quite sure what to make of him.

His back is bent and his legs are weak, his feet shuffling across the floor. She can’t quite hear it over the din, but it looks as though a loud creaking sound was emitted when he sunk into the chair. Another attendant – possibly a student by their age – hands him a lute, which looks old but glossy and well-cared-for. The bard grips it in hands that are liver-spotted and frail. There is a slight tremor in them before he strums across, but the note rings pure and true, bringing the crowd to a sudden silence.

It is only now that he looks up at the people amassed before him. His hair is thin and stark white, and the lines gracing his face tell the story of a life long and hard, though full of laughter. With her better-than-human eyesight, see can see that his own is failing him, his pale blue eyes slightly clouded and squinting.

“Fuck.” says Geralt beside her, as quiet as he has ever been and in a tone she has never heard before. She looks over at her companion, her father, to find his hands clenched into fists at his sides, and his eyes are at once hard and so, so soft.

Who is this man, this bard, this Pankratz, who has made the mighty Geralt of Rivia react like this?

At the front, the bard strums his lute, and starts singing.

The first thing that Ciri notices is that, as old as he is, as wrinkled and haggard and frail as he is, his voice has not lost whatever talent it had had when he became a bard, that has drawn such a large crowd today. His rich tenor rings out in a way that, if Ciri had not seen the man, she would think him in his mid-thirties, eyes clear and head full of thick hair, strumming his lute in a crowded inn.

The second thing that she notices is that these are the opening bars to the song that follows her and Geralt around wherever they travel. The one that, apparently, helped to save the reputation of Witchers, that made it easier for them to get food and shelter.

And the man who wrote that song was the famous bard Jaskier.

This Professor Pankratz is Geralt's _Jaskier_.

Of course. Who else could it be? Who else had Geralt ever known who could possibly be a professor of music at Oxenfurt?

Although it’s not as though Geralt ever spoke about him. She knew more about Jaskier from the songs he had written than from the man he had written them about. Sometimes it felt like she knew more about _Geralt_ from the songs than from the man himself.

She thinks back to the words of the lady who was escorting them, the accusatory tone with which she spat at Geralt. She thinks of the way that Geralt had almost sounded like he was begging not to come here tonight, and the way he acquiesced so easily.

What had happened between Geralt and Jaskier? How long had it been since they last saw each-other?

The song ends with the whole room, apart from herself and Geralt, joining in with a rousing chorus. The old bard is singing through a grin splitting his face, as though basking in the community he has created, the power he has over the room.

At the final “friend of humanity” he seems to be looking straight at Geralt, and for a second it is as though a cloud of sorrow has passed over his face. But that is impossible, because there is no way he can see Geralt in the distance and gloom with his failing eyes. The expression disappears almost as soon as Ciri has seen it, and she can only write it off as a trick of the light.

“Thank you all for coming tonight,” he says as the crowd quietens down. His voice rings when speaking almost as it does in song, belying his age. “I can’t quite see you all, but I have been reliably informed that I’ve drawn quite the crowd.”

He grins, and it rejuvenates him, as though years have fallen away. “I’m glad you could all make it, I gather some of you have travelled quite some way. I am, quite predictably, going to be playing most of the songs of my youth. And, well. I hope you all enjoy.”

And he bursts into song after song, full of life and energy and stories of Geralt.

The night wears on, and Ciri learns many things.

She learns about Geralt’s encounter with a Djinn, a story he has never told her before.

She learns, in a new light, the story of her parents wedding.

She learns, through the vein that stemmed through each song that was played, the depth of what the famous bard Jaskier felt for Geralt of Rivia.

From the glances she takes at Geralt’s stricken face beside her, she thinks that he learns something of that too.


	3. Jaskier

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier always feels most alive when he is singing in front of people. He has always felt this way, ever since he was a child, but it hits more deeply now, when he struggles to move and see and even play as he once used to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For optimal sadness, try listening to [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LQr-XD_onLA&t=3466s) while reading :D I totally didn't make myself cry by doing this while writing I don't know what you're talking about

Jaskier always feels most alive when he is singing in front of people. He has always felt this way, ever since he was a child, but it hits more deeply now, when he struggles to move and see and even play as he once used to.

He can feel the crowd respond as he enters the room, and it makes his blood sing in a way that it seldom does, nowadays. He strums his lute, to check the tuning, as he always does, even though he knows that his students have taken care of that for him. He’s not entirely sure he’d be able to turn the pegs.

It’s still in perfect condition, of course it is. This lute, this gift of Filavandrel, has lasted him a long time, a memento from a years ago that always weighs heavily on his mind.

He looks up at the audience as they go quiet. They’re blurry to his failing eyes – he can only see things at about an arm’s length away, now – but he can still feel the sheer presence of the large group of onlookers.

“Fuck.” It is quiet, so, so quiet, and he really shouldn’t have heard it at all, but his ears are attuned to that particular pitch, even after many long years. There is only one person he has ever met, probably only one person on the entire continent, who swears quite like that.

Jaskier launches into song, so that the world cannot hear his heart breaking.

It has been so long, almost half a century, since he last heard that voice snarl at him, telling him that if he could have one blessing it would be to never have to deal with Jaskier again. And Jaskier had left. He had enough self-preservation, to know when staying was going to hurt him irreparably.

Leaving hurt him just as much.

He had resigned himself, years ago, to never seeing Geralt of Rivia again.

And yet, here he is.

Jaskier isn’t sure if he wants Geralt to see him like this. Old and gnarled and forlorn. But, he supposes, it’s too late now. He’s already here.

He can almost pinpoint exactly where the Witcher is standing, or at least he thinks he can. It’s like he’s drawn to him, somehow. Like he always has been. He cannot help but look towards him as he sings. A friend of humanity indeed.

The night wears on, and Jaskier’s arms grow heavy. He is too old to be holding a lute for so long. But this is his last big performance. He’s known it’s been coming for a while. He formally retired from teaching over a decade ago, but he’s finally managed to accept that it’s time for him to stop entirely, from the way his back hurts and his fingers cramp even after a short performance. Tonight was always going to push his limits.

He launches into another rendition of “Toss a Coin”. It’s always been his most popular work – though the rhymes make him cringe now – and the crowd is fast to join it.

When he finishes, it is to rousing applause; it is the last piece in his set, and they all know it.

But when his students come to take his lute and help him up, he brushes them away. There is one last song. One song he never sings. This is his last chance. (This is his only chance.)

He plasters on his customary grin, because he doesn’t know what expression will find its way onto his face if he doesn’t.

“I have…” he starts, then pauses, waiting for the cheering to die down when they notice that he’s still sat there, lute in hand. “I have one last song to play tonight. One that few of you know about, I imagine, and even fewer of you have heard. There’s a long history to this song. I don’t -” He swallows. “I don’t perform it.

“But there were three people on the mountain. And two of them are immortal. They have all the time in the world. But I. I don’t.” His smile has fallen, he knows it has. He tries for a self-deprecating grimace, but even that fails. “I don’t have much time at all.

“So here, my friends, is the last song I ever wrote. Her Sweet Kiss.”

He closes his eyes. It doesn’t matter that he can’t even see with them open. There’s too much of him in this song for him to admit that there are more people watching than the one person in the audience that he is singing to.

He takes a deep breath, and his fingers find the chords as though they are second nature. They are. It’s all he knows, all he’s ever known.

All the anger he has ever felt, all the sadness, all the pain, _leaks_ from his soul into his voice.

His voice breaks part way through – he’s _weak_ , love, and he is _wanting_ – and he’s amazed he made it this far.

“The story is this: she’ll destroy with a sweet kiss.”

The final note is met with silence. He still hasn’t opened his eyes.

This wasn’t. It wasn’t what the people had come to see today. He supposes he’s sort of ruined the mood.

He reaches a shaking hand up to scrub away the tears that have found their way rolling down his face.

A hand grips his, stopping its movement, while another brushes the wetness beneath his eyes. They are large and calloused, and if Jaskier keeps his eyes closed, he can just pretend that…

“ _Jaskier_.” The growl is quiet, but echoes loud in Jaskier’s heart. He grip on his lute loosens, without him having any say into the action. _Geralt_.

The hands are gone, and Jaskier’s eyes fly open. He can’t, Geralt can’t _go_ , Jaskier needs to, to, to see him, one last time.

But Geralt is still there, handing the lute that he must have caught to a wide-eyed student, and then he turns back to Jaskier.

His face is no different, just a little more scarred, which isn’t surprising, of course it isn’t. He’s a Witcher.

But his golden eyes. They are changed. They are older and deeper and full of _pain_.

He kneels down in front of Jaskier’s chair, reaching his hands out again, but they pause inches away from Jaskier’s face. The Witcher’s mouth opens and shuts again. If Jaskier was in a different place, a different _time_ , he might have laughed, and made a joke. Geralt has never been good with words. But he is old and Geralt is _here_ , and Jaskier doesn’t know what to say.

“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt says again. With his eyes open, Jaskier can read in his eyes the meaning behind the word.

Geralt is trying to say sorry. He knows he can’t make up the lost time, that he can’t rewrite the past. But he’s asking for forgiveness. He’s asking if forgiveness is a possibility.

Oh, Jaskier was so _broken_ by everything that happened. He never composed another song. He resents that Geralt tore his heart into pieces and left, and never once showed his face in half a century of waiting.

But he is _old_ , and he cannot pretend that seeing Geralt, now, isn’t everything he ever hoped for.

He leans forwards, as far as he can with his body betraying him at each movement. Geralt comes up to meet him. Jaskier buries his face in Geralt’s shoulder as the Witcher wraps his arms around him.

It doesn’t change the time lost. It doesn’t mean that it never happened. But it’s a strange weight off Jaskier’s shoulders, and it’s everything he's wanted for so, so long.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much everyone for reading! I've never really written for a popular-ish fandom before and it's surreal to see so many people interacting with what I've written! Love you all <3

**Author's Note:**

> Hey! I'd love to know if you enjoyed this! Drop me a kudos, comment, or find me at [thebansacredbanned](https://thebansacredbanned.tumblr.com/)


End file.
